


Taste Me

by SashaDistan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Casual Aliens AU, Chef! Shiro (Voltron), Food Photographer! Keith (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Oh, the sexual tension between a chef and their food photographer...
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 142





	Taste Me

**Author's Note:**

> So you all remember [THIS](https://twitter.com/xiaochanggeng/status/1316745533776564231?s=20) viral tweet which everyone QRT'd with their favourite pairings? Well, here's mine.

“Slower,” Keith breathes in his ear. The single word is more a sensation of tingling warmth than an actual sound.

Shiro twists his wrist and draws back again, moving at a fraction of his usual speed.

“That’s it.” The praise is rich in his unusual accent and the click of his throat as he swallows is deafening. “Good. _Good…_ ”

Shiro can feel every rise and fall of Keith’s chest against his back, and the thud of Keith’s heart against his right shoulder. Galra have their hearts on the other side after all.

“Again,” Keith instructs.

There is a slick noise in front of Shiro as he repeats the motion. Wet on wet.

“That’s it,” Keith purrs the praise. “Beautiful.”

It’s all Shiro can do to breathe and hold his body still as he follows Keith’s commands.

He finishes in silence, letting his hands fall away.

“Perfect. A natural talent.” Shiro can feel Keith’s smile – and his soft fur – against his jaw. “Good job.”

The Galra photographer steps back – Shiro mourns the contact instantly – and lowers his camera to look at the plate on the pass without the viewfinder. His stomach rumbles.

“Fuck, that looks _so_ delicious.”

If Shiro had any choice he would give it to Keith, or maybe offer to feed the photographer-slash-prettiest-person-he-has-ever-met-in-his-life by hand. But he doesn’t.

“Service!”

A waiter appears as if from nowhere and whisks the dish away, out to the dining room of the restaurant where every table is full. There are three food critics waiting to potentially annihilate him. Even though reviews of ‘Atlas on Fifth’ tend to be good bordering on magnificent, Shiro always worries.

Shiro glances across the bustling kitchen, his sous chef keeping close watch on every element of every dish, whilst Shiro has his every move picked over. He is only cooking for the critic’s table after all, because of the pictures. He sneaks a look across at Keith, watching as the lean, purple furred Galra skims through the photographs, his sharp little fangs on show as he smiles.

Shiro has people take pictures of his food before. But never like this.

But that’s what _Marmora Taste_ offers the customers of their website and luxurious print magazine. An experience second only to eating the most brilliant food in the universe.

Intimate. Dynamic. Personal.

Shiro sears the steak over the wood fire which burns in the stone hearth on the other side of the kitchen, flipping the thick slab of meat with his tongs, trying not to watch the way Keith leans in close enough to nearly scorch his fur as he gets the shots he wants. When Shiro takes up the poker to move the coals around, Keith crouches, ducking under his arm with a large hand spread over the small of Shiro’s back. Shiro can hardly breathe, because even with a fire in front of him Keith’s hand is _so_ warm.

Sparks flare, the meat browns, the marbled fat within blending into the muscle.

Shiro pauses with the steak on the resting board, knife in his hand, testing the give of the meat with his thumb knuckle.

“That’s it…” Keith’s tone is low and gravely, gorgeous. Somehow even with the background noise of the kitchen, it’s all Shiro can hear. “Right there…”

He slices the steak, arranges it on a platter with its accompaniments ; smoked aubergine puree, roasted black garlic and beetroot, and a sauce of vibrant green citrus and coriander. His every motion slowed as Keith takes his pictures, the camera hooked under Shiro’s arm or over his shoulder, Keith’s entire body pressed against him, breath warm and damp against Shiro’s skin.

When Shiro moves to push the finished platter across the pass, Keith is quickly around to the other side, turning the lens to pull to focus, capturing Shiro’s black and silver prosthetic as he gets a sumptuous view of the food.

He straightens up, and grins at Shiro. The platter is whisked away from between them.

“You’re amazing,” Keith tells him. “I feel so lucky to get to be here.”

“Thank you for coming. It’s an honour.”

“Well, that’s everything they’ll need for the feature,” Keith says, camera still cradled in his softly furred hands. The dusky purple pads of his fingers play over the edges of the tech. Keith trims his claws.

“And what about you?” Shiro’s eyes go wide even as the words leave his lips.

He cannot believe he’s been so bold, even if the question could easily be taken to mean something else, something innocent and offhand. But one look in Keith’s yellow and violet eyes, shows Shiro that the Galra understands him perfectly.

And then – like the derailment of a mag lev train in slow motion – Shiro recalls a page from his college textbook, the one which accompanied his class on Universal Sociological Dynamics. That’s why he’d gone to college on Altea after all, for a broader, more diverse education.

_Galra, a species native to Daibazaal. Largely carnivorous and extremely diverse in appearance, though almost all individuals sport either fur or scales in some shade of purple. Notable abilities shared across the species include an unrivalled sense of smell, strong enough to detect pheromone changes in almost all other sentient species._

_Unrivalled sense of smell._

Oh gods.

Shiro's been hard under his chef whites and flimsy drawstring pants for the past half hour and Keith has been able to smell him the whole time.

Keith smiles, a single pointed fang on show, raises the lens up to his face and takes a photograph of Shiro, even as Shiro feels his cheeks heat.

“The food here is stunning,” Keith says levelly, “but I'd rather have the chef.”

Shiro doesn't remember deciding to move, only that he has. And now there is nothing between him and Keith except for Keith's camera, and Shiro’s prosthetic hand is fisted in the front of Keith's tunic – and Shiro _never_ touches people without their permission but he has now – and Keith's face is so close. Shiro can see the shards of silver struck through his eyes like shooting stars, his lashes are thick and inky black against his purple cheek.

“Yeah, perfect,” Keith breathes again, voice warm, lips damp. “Just like that.”

Shiro’s breath catches in his chest.

This time, Shiro knows he isn't talking about the food.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come chat with us on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SashaDistan)
> 
> This author responds to comments.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible [Lole](https://twitter.com/@leandralena) for being an awesome beta reader.


End file.
